The Prophecy of Time
by Lissia Moonstone
Summary: Harry seeks his death at the hands of Lord Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest, but his final task does not quite go as planned. Having survived his second Killing Curse, Harry finds himself stranded in 1944, dealing with a young, sane and very dangerous Tom Marvolo Riddle. TRHP.
1. Prologue

**Authors Note: **Thank you for choosing to read this work. This is hopefully going to be a new take on a multi chapter TRHP time travel story. I'm going to try and update every week or two, so I really hope you stick around. Reviews are really appreciated.

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**The Prophecy of Time**

**Prologue**

"I thought he would come."

Harry had never heard that high, cold voice in such a tone. Almost ... disappointed. He saw the Dark Lord standing still in the centre of the clearing, his followers mute, the atmosphere thick and frozen, waiting to be shattered into pieces.

But why wouldn't he be disappointed? Harry knew Voldemort would want his enemy to come and surrender to his power. He would want Harry to fully submit to his death, to kneel and stare into his cold eyes as he cast the Killing Curse. Harry imagined Voldemort felt robbed of his true victory, unknowing as Harry stood, bones aching, mind exhausted, summoning the last of his broken will.

He was more robbed than Voldemort could ever be. Every future he'd ever dreamed of during those long summers at the Dursley's had vanished into thin air. Every smile and memory of his friends ghostly and distant. Every childish hope he'd held over the years, that the Light would win and evil would fall, the natural order, destroyed.

Taking in one last hungry look, he let the stone slip out of his fingers and watched as his mother's eyes, shimmering with tears, slowly faded into nothing. He could barely stand to watch his father and the only people he'd ever considered family depart once more, dissipating into the forest gloom, but ever broken, he steeled himself. __It's going to be okay___, _he thought. __I will see them soon. And I will never have to lose anyone ever again.__

Branches cracked under his feet as he stepped forward, but time stood still. Harry paused, taking one last long look up into the sky. Finally absent of the Death Eaters curses, it was a dark tapestry of shimmering diamonds, a crescent moon glowing. Far too beautiful of a setting. It was almost easy to forget the smoke from the burning castle nearby, the smell of ash and fear and something macabre and sickening clawing at the back of his throat. The blood on his arms glistened, black in the moonlight, the faces of the people he tried to save scarred in his mind.

Fred. Tonks. Lupin. Colin.

Even Snape.

Harry's eyes burned, the quiet melancholy gone. He had carried the weight of every death and betrayal for so long, for too long, and he could no longer bear it. Even Dumbledore, who had always been there to guide Harry, who Harry trusted to be leading him in the right direction, had betrayed him after all, had drawn him to his death like a moth to a flame, or like a pig for slaughter.

Bitterly he wondered just how long Dumbledore had known that the Boy Who Lived must die at the hands of Lord Voldemort. __Did he know when he avoided me in my fifth year? __he mused_. ___Did he know when he watched over me in my first? Or when he left me on the doorstep of a family who hated me when I was one?__

Taking a ragged breath, he quieted his mind, refocused on the centre of the clearing and moved forward. Regardless of his suffering, he still knew his duty to defend.

"It seems I was ... mistaken," Lord Voldemort said.

"You weren't," Harry spoke, loud and clear.

The silence shattered. Voldemort whipped his head around to meet Harry's steady gaze. Death Eaters gasped and crowed until Voldemort forcibly hushed them. Bellatrix stood to the side of the clearing, as close to the Dark Lord as it seemed he would allow, eyes wide, chest heaving, on bated breath.

Harry looked into the serpentine face of the man who had single-handedly shaped and ruined his life. Stared into those inhuman eyes, as the Dark Lord stared back, that ominous connection resurfacing once more. Despite the watchers on the sidelines, no one else existed in that moment but the two of them.

Now Harry was aware of the Horcrux, its presence was almost unmistakeable. He wondered how he had ever missed it. Foreign feelings of triumph, cold hatred and murderous instinct threatened to overtake Harry until there was nothing of himself left, but there was a sudden wariness also. The soul piece seemed to almost recoil in fear, screaming _danger, danger_.

"Harry Potter," Voldemort all but whispered, yet his voice still rang through the clearing. "The Boy Who Lived ... come to die."

Briefly Harry wondered how it had come to this. Voldemort, one of the Lost Boys like Harry and Snape, such similar lives, forced into the same circumstances, yet their trajectories so wildly different. A soul devoid of empathy, a soul who died for love, and a soul who would die for the greater good.

He felt Death waiting, desperate to seep into his bones, foreboding but alluring. His eyes fluttered closed in anticipation, and Voldemort raised the Death Stick.

"_Avada Kedavra,_" the Dark Lord cried, and Harry knew nothing once more.


	2. Chapter One

**Authors Note: **Hey guys. Sorry for how long my updates are clearly going to take! I haven't written properly in around ten years and I'm trying to get back into it. All feedback is appreciated - both complimentary and constructive.

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**The Prophecy of Time**

**Chapter One**

The wind howled like a werewolf, the trees whistling and shaking against the dark, murky sky. Harry could just about see them through shuttered, flickering eyelids, before the world blackened again.

He knew he should stay lucid. He knew something wasn't right, that something needed to be addressed, but the allure of unconsciousness was so powerful, a sweet but dangerous lullaby. He had wanted to just sleep, really sleep and forget, to feel a little peace, for so long. Weakly he twitched, attempting to grasp onto wakefulness, but sleep took him silently and with ease. The wind settled.

* * *

Harry came to, his eyes flickering as a gentle sun rose. The sky swam in his vision in pinks and golds, and the fresh scent of heather lingered in the air. His hands feebly grasped for purchase on dew-dotted grass, as he struggled to awaken fully, almost unwilling.

Harry froze. Hang on, grass?

He sat up abruptly, eyes flying open, and stared around at the Forbidden Forest in which he had died. The trees loomed over him, casting shadows.

_Am I dead? Is this the afterlife? Am I a ghost, not permitted to move on? Would be my luck_, he thought, breathing speeding up, his chest tight.

He'd gone to Voldemort to meet his fated end. He hadn't envisioned or prepared for ... whatever this was. Tentatively he brought a hand up to his line of sight, examining. Cuts and bruises lined the surface of his pale skin, the lettering of his scarring smeared with blood. _Well, I look real enough ..._

Pulling himself up, he stared critically at his surroundings. It looked to be morning now, but for some reason the sun seemed a little lower in the sky than usual, shining directly into Harry's eyes and making him wince. The dark fir trees imposed on the clearing, somehow fuller than Harry had remembered them. The air was frigid, even compared to that of the witching hour Harry had last seen, and a breeze fluttered against his cold skin, convincing him further of his continued survival.

Groaning, he dropped his head in his hands. _But of course I would survive the Killing Curse twice. Even when I wanted to die it wouldn't work_, he thought miserably, eyes burning, threatening to well with tears. _I just needed to save everyone. Where are they now? Where the hell is Voldemort? Where are the Death Eaters and why am I still here?_

Tempted to sit and scream in frustration, he instead dragged himself up, pushing against the grass with his hands, dirt and twigs falling from his torn jeans. He stood with difficulty, pain radiating from various wounds, and then froze in place.

_Oh_. The grass, yes. He was sure there was no grass within the clearing before. There had been a lot going on, but this detail was throwing him off balance, compounding the confusion. It had been a wider space, more stumps than trees, and the ground had been barren, he was sure of it.

"I must have gone mad," he croaked. "All these years, everything that's happened, and I'm finally over the edge. Great."

Shaking his head, bewildered, he staggered a turn, moving to face the direction of the castle. Over the thicket of trees, Hogwarts loomed in the distance, high and imposing. He wondered whether the battle was still raging on, whether Voldemort had announced his death to the school, cruel words igniting anger and violent revolution. Clueless as to the ferocity of the fight he might return to, Harry nevertheless set off to face his fate once more. Splitting pain flared in his side, and he gasped and gritted his teeth, lifting his tattered shirt with shaking hands to see a bloom of purple bruising adorning his ribs. _I must have fallen on this side when he cursed me_, he thought. _As if he hasn't marked me enough_.

Memories of the hours gone dwelled in his mind as he weakly marched onwards, the bruising a dull, constant throb. He had thought Voldemort would crow, thought he would seem more victorious and mocking, but he seemed almost pensive, cautious. He had been as cruel as ever, and as cold as ice, but for the first time Harry had seen him uncertain, his unwavering belief in his own infallibility tempered by the long struggle to kill his enemy. In the end, Harry had gone to him, and that must have stung. As much as Voldemort wanted him to accept his death, and as satisfying as it would have been to force his enemy to acknowledge and submit to his superiority, Harry knew he would have preferred to be able to know he had truly won, that he had found Harry and destroyed him while he begged for his life, cowardly, and the fact he hadn't would have made the victory taste bitter, his dominance still not fully exacted.

Harry was rather uncomfortable with how well he seemed to understand the Dark Lord's mindset and motivations these days. Those long months feeling alone in the tent, the Horcrux whispering darkly to him in the shadows, had changed him, whether he liked it or not. Felt like they had infected him.

The Forbidden Forest was dissipating from sight now, trees making way for fresh air and frosted hills. Harry had thought he would be able to hear noise from the castle, shouts and curses flying, and wondered if there had been another ceasefire. A terrible thought that they may have surrendered, too low in numbers to carry on, assaulted Harry's mind, but he continued to stumble up the hill with renewed fervour, refusing to consider the possibility. He had to fight. He had to help, whatever the cost.

The castle was close now, around a hundred metres away. He was almost there. But the pain in his side grew with each step, and battle wounds were reopening again, blood slowly seeping through his clothes. His head felt woozy, like it was floating. He staggered on -

"My boy, whatever has happened to you?"

His already pale face drained of all colour, and he crumpled to the ground.

* * *

Harry felt himself being dropped into an armchair, and a wave of diagnostic spells moving over him.

"Starting to get used to passing out every two seconds," he rasped to himself, momentarily forgetting he wasn't actually alone. Then, warily, he opened his eyes.

A familiar face watched him pensively, eyes looking down at him through half moon glasses. Presented with this visual evidence, Harry internally accepted that he had in fact either died or gone mad. Dumbledore was dead, not walking the Hogwarts grounds, and not in control of the Headmasters Office Harry seemed to have resurfaced in. The office was as grand and imposing as ever, all stone columns and staircases, portraits surrounding them, staring unabashedly. However, he was unsettled once more - the room felt off somehow, as if someone had shifted everything a centimetre to the left.

"From the sounds of it, you seem to have formed a habit. Might I ask how you have ended up in this situation, if you can recall?" Dumbledore handed him a goblet of water, his eyes still piercing Harry's. "I have healed your external injuries, but seeing as you were bloodied and intending to enter a castle full of my students, I must query the nature and intent."

Harry went to stutter a response, and then began to notice some odd details. Dumbledore had the same clear blue eyes and half moon glasses, but his face was less lined than he had last seen it alive, and his hair, though streaked with grey, was auburn. _This must be the afterlife_, Harry thought dazedly. _Some strange afterlife world where Dumbledore is young, and there is still a Hogwarts for the dead, or maybe its all in my mind ... and I've imagined my home here as a comfort. But then why would Dumbledore be concerned about anyone? We are all dead here ..._

Harry stared in blind confusion, taking in Dumbledore's countenance. The man looked concerned at the lack of a response, and subtly reached again for his wand, twirling it lightly in his hands.

_That is not the Elder Wand. That must be the wand that chose him ..._ "Where's the Elder Wand?" he asked, brow furrowed. "I don't understand why you wouldn't have it here ... where is it? Is it because he took it from your grave?"

Dumbledore's eyes widened, his face white as a sheet, jaw dropped. He didn't reply for a long moment. "Where do you think we are?"

"The afterlife? Heaven? Something along those lines," Harry replied wearily, gazing around the room, trying to work out what was bothering him about it. "He killed me, right? It's all over now. I did my duty, Sir, I did what you needed me to do. It's gone for good. Only the snake remains, and I told Neville how to end it-"

Dumbledore stood abruptly. "What is your name? What year do you believe this to be?"

Dumbstruck, Harry's eyes snapped back to meet Dumbledore's. "It's nineteen ninety eight. Professor, you know me. What on earth do you mean? It's nineteen ninety eight, and my name is Harry James Potter. I'm not completely mad, you know. Is the battle still going on without me, I need to know-"

"Mr Potter, the current year is nineteen forty four, we are very much alive, and I'm afraid I've never seen you before in my life."

Harry barrelled upright, moving backwards hastily, like an animal threatened. Dumbledore stared at him with an unnerving blend of sympathy and fear. Harry was frozen, stock still as he frantically sought an escape from the situation, to no avail. He had stumbled backwards, backing up until he hit the grand bookshelves, and he was intelligent enough to know not to attempt an escape past an Albus Dumbledore presumably at the height of his magical power, who didn't even seem to recognise him. _Why doesn't he recognise me? What on earth is happening here?_

"What on earth are you talking about?" he gasped. "This is manipulative, even for you!"

Dumbledore moved forward cautiously, regarding Harry as if he were a landmine that would explode with one misstep. "It would be convenient for me to assume you insane, but you seem to know me well, and know details you should not. Time travellers are exceedingly rare, but not unknown to me. Headmaster Dippet should be returning soon, and we need to discuss how to handle your situation."

Harry opened his mouth to respond, and then his words died on the tip of his tongue. He had worked out what was bothering him about the office. The portrait of Armando Dippet was nowhere to be seen. The most recently dated portrait in sight, that of Phineas Nigellus Black, stared at him with rapt curiosity.

_Oh Merlin, it's true_, he thought. _How__?_

His world felt like it was crashing down around him. He could not be further away from the people who needed him, and the distress of that was worse than the existential fear, the feeling of complete misplacement, clawing at his chest.

"I ... I didn't mean to come here. I need to go back home. As soon as possible." He cleared his throat and tried to steady his voice. "Can you help me?"

Dumbledore sighed heavily. "I fear this will be rather a longer endeavour than you imagine, Mr Potter. You should establish yourself as a student here for the time being, and I will aid your return to your own time, as best as I can. Come sit, and we will discuss this."

* * *

Green eyes stared back at him as he examined his appearance in the mirror. Dumbledore had assured him everything would be taken care of, and so far he had been true to his word. Harry had been granted a guest room while he waited for the evening's impromptu Sorting, had arrived to find everything he would need for the moment on the bed, and he was all set to embark on this new life for however long he would need it. But a trickle of unease felt as if it was constantly running down Harry's spine, ice cold.

He had bathed in order to get ready for the inevitable, but no amount of water could stop Harry seeing the blood on his arms, black in the moonlight, or stop him feeling the pain in his side, in his shoulder, or in his soul.

Just thinking about Ron and Hermione's faces made him feel hollow. Thinking of Fred made him want to collapse.

_But I can't, not yet_, he vowed.

Attempting to flatten his messy hair with his hands, as usual with no avail, he fastened his robes. They were Hogwarts robes, yes, but they were different from Harry's time ... blacker, and a little longer. A feeling of implacable wrongness seemed to loom over everything Harry encountered within this time. The small differences bothered him more than the glaring ones. He wondered if he should Glamour himself slightly, give himself a bit of the wrongness too, so no one was sure to recognise him back in his own time, but he decided against it. He needed something to feel real in this strange new time ... he didn't think he could cope trying to get used to a new face and a new name, not even feeling like himself any more.

Losing his glasses had been bad enough. Harry imagined they were smashed to pieces somewhere in a Forbidden Forest in nineteen ninety eight. Courtesy of Hermione, he knew a temporary spell to correct his vision, thankfully, but losing the glasses felt like a loss of identity. He found he didn't quite recognise the solemn boy in the mirror staring back at him.

A sharp rap at the door broke his contemplation sharply, and he sighed, opening the door to see Headmaster Dippet awaiting him. They had spoken briefly after the man had returned to the Headmaster's Office, when Dumbledore had introduced him rather vaguely as a new student transferring in. Harry supposed he should try to consider creating a backstory ... with all the shock, he hadn't considered much of the lies he would need to spin to stay unknown.

"Mr Potter, we are ready for your Sorting now. If you could follow me to the Great Hall? I will talk you through the way as we walk ... you will need to learn it."

Harry could hardly tell him he knew the way better than the back of his hand, so he dutifully listened to the man drone as they walked, staring around the cobbled walls of corridors and noting any differences.

All too soon, they approached the towering double doors that led into the Great Hall. Thankfully they were closed, and Harry let out a breath he hadn't realised he had been holding. At least he had a moment to prepare before he was unleashed to the wolves.

He wished he could summon up some of that famous Gryffindor bravery, but faced with the profound strangeness and sheer unknown of the situation, he found himself at a loss.

"Now, Mr Potter, I am going to announce your Sorting to the students," Dippet said brusquely, levelling his gaze with Harry, who hoped he didn't look as apprehensive as he felt. "It shouldn't take me a moment, and then I will open the doors for you to follow through. You will walk to the front of the Hall, near to the staff table, where the Sorting Hat will rest on a lone chair. Please put the Hat on and you will be Sorted. Don't be alarmed by the Hat's manner, it can be quite ... cutting and cavalier." The man sniffed and turned away, the doors opening and closing with a simple gesture from the wizard.

Harry could hear the man introducing him, his voice magically amplified. Before he knew it, the doors were opening once more, and what felt like a thousand eyes were set upon him.

Walking down along the centre of the tables silently to the Hat, Harry's sense of nostalgia was more ... trepidatory than fond. Fate and an overwhelming feeling of deja vu weighed down on his shoulders as he moved, very aware of the soft thud of his footsteps.

The Great Hall looked much the same as it had in his time, palatial and grand. The four long tables seemed like they were stretching forever as Harry walked, nervous to get to the front and get the Sorting over with. Floating candles softly lit the space. The Hall was full, hundreds of students in dark robes turning, staring, but you could have heard a pin drop. Harry knew if he looked above, he would see the twinkle of the night stars high above him. He wondered what constellations the charmed ceiling would show in this time. Perhaps Sirius was near ... he had never been able to see it at home.

Dead silence rang around, all ears pricked and eyes questioning - just like when he was eleven. He supposed that at least rather than the usual reasoning for attention on him, no one here actually knew who and what he was. It was this knowledge that made Harry relax slightly. At least there was no real reason for anyone to take notice of him here, apart from being a new face. For once he could disappear into the shadows. It would help as he tried to figure out how to get back home, and if he was truthful with himself, he would just enjoy the peace and quiet for a change. He didn't have to worry here ... as much as Time was trapping him, it was also protecting him, and giving him a chance to prepare. No matter how long he spent here working on a way to get home, he would not miss the inevitable fight that at some point, he needed to face.

Nearing the front of the Hall now, he was thrown off again by the staff table. Most faces were unfamiliar, but he caught sight of a more corporeal Binns looking at him. Dumbledore, not yet the Headmaster Harry knew, sat to the left side of Dippet. His gaze was unfathomable.

Taking a deep breath, Harry sat down on the designated chair, while Dumbledore stood and placed the Sorting Hat on his head.

"Well, hello again, Harry Potter. Or should I even say 'again'? I suppose technically, this is the first time."

Flabbergasted, he replied, _OK. Brilliant, so the Hat can see into the future. Anyone else I need to worry about?_

The Hat snorted. "Just because humans are bound by the conventions of Time doesn't mean everything else is. All I am is magic, Harry Potter. Magic can slip and twist through Time how it likes. Will you tell me how the years have treated you? No need, I can full well see."

He attempted to hide his grimace from the rest of the Hall by ducking his head slightly. _Look, if you can see everything that has happened then you know I need to be left alone without anyone noticing me. Put me in Gryffindor again and make this simple ... please. I can work on getting back to my time._

"I'm sorry, Harry Potter. You have evaded the house I designated for you once. It won't happen again."

Disbelief crashed like waves. _You gave me Gryffindor. That was your decision. I didn't _force _you, I asked you,_ he retorted vehemently._ My place here, like it was then, is in my House. Put me back there so I can do what I need to do in peace - you do realise the fate of the future is at stake here?_

"You have strategised with me once, and it worked, but it will not work like this. I put you in Gryffindor last time because you requested it on account of your beliefs and character, not for some convoluted purpose and greater scheme. You are proving my point for me. I think you know exactly what I'm going to say to you now. SLYTHERIN!"

A polite applause scattered through the Hall, visibly pronounced from the Slytherin benches, as Harry's eyes flew to Dumbledore. The man looked resigned, eyes shadowed. His expression was carefully neutral, but having once known him, Harry could see straight through it. Almost unrecognisable from the jovial, kind man Harry knew, his eyes flickered away as Harry rose slowly, starting a walk to the Slytherin table that felt like a death march.

Most faces at the table were completely unfamiliar to Harry, but he felt painful twinges of memories when he looked at a few of the students. There was an older boy with flaxen hair, unmistakeable as a Malfoy heir, features haughty and proud. Next to him sat a girl with long dark hair. Harry could admit her face was objectively beautiful, but her cold black eyes had nothing behind them. She was instantly identifiable as a relation of Bellatrix Lestrange ... it reeked from the twitch of her smirk, every bit of her body language, from just a two second analysis. He looked away in disgust.

_It might not be so terrible_, he thought. _I can blend in. The Hat has obviously put me here for some bizarre reason ... I can fake enough of their attributes to pass without too much unwanted attention. And at least I'm not the Boy Who Lived here ... I'm just a boy._

He was nearing the table, his gaze searching for an available seat, when his eyes fell upon another boy. A boy seemingly at the centre of the others, students hanging off his every word. Foreboding dark eyes snapped onto Harry as he approached the table.

Harry swallowed. _Oh shit_.


	3. Chapter Two

**Authors Note: **Hi everyone, sorry for the late update. It's quite difficult to write consistently with my mental illness, but I do try. I think I might be getting a bit more consistent! I hope you like this chapter, and I'd love any reviews.

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**Chapter Two**

He simply stared for a long moment, mind racing.

_Oh Merlin. Of course he would be here. It's nineteen forty bloody four. How did I not realise this?_

Greetings and waves from various students died out. It took him around five seconds to realise he had stopped still with what looked to be the eldest students of Slytherin House, Riddle's little circle, staring straight at him, with Riddle in the centre, curious. He gulped. "Hi."

"Tom Riddle. Pleasure to meet you." Riddle stood to lean over the table and extended a hand smoothly, those intense eyes never leaving Harry's. Harry felt an overwhelming sense of danger that Riddle knew, that he must have known who he was, who they were, and what they were to each other. Yet the man simply smiled, shark like, as they shook hands. "Sit down next to Abraxas, here, and let me introduce you to Slytherin House. You'll be in seventh year with us, yes?"

Harry felt like there was a stone in his throat he could barely breathe past. He sat reluctantly opposite Riddle, where the aforementioned Abraxas had moved to make space. "Yes, seventh year," he replied awkwardly, forcing his words out. _Better off saying as little as possible around him_, he thought darkly. _Who can tell what he's capable of ... even at this point in time_.

He was starting to make the connections as to why he had ended up in nineteen forty four; had his suspicions it was that rotten Horcrux inside him attempting to save itself. Logically he knew it shouldn't have even been possible, but with magic as black as what Voldemort had descended into, he couldn't rule anything out.

That perfectly placed smile never moved an inch as the future Dark Lord gestured around the table, introducing Harry to the seventh years of Slytherin House. "This is Abraxas Malfoy, Druella Rosier, Selene Avery, Alec Nott, Corban Rosier and Tobias Mulciber. All seventh years."

Harry made his greetings to everyone, faking as much politeness as he could muster, given who he was conversing with. The boy Harry had identified as a Malfoy, blond and austere, was Abraxas, and the dark haired girl next to him, Druella Rosier, simpered a hello, flicking her hair dismissively. The male Rosier and Nott flanked Riddle on either side, with Mulciber, large and bodyguard-like, to the far left. Selene Avery, a thin girl with pale skin and light brown hair, was the only one who didn't seem altogether intimidating, smiling and greeting Harry with enthusiasm. Regardless, Harry knew the family name, and boxed his judgements away for future examination.

From there on, the table settled back into conversation. For all intents and purposes, Riddle came across as a normal, pleasant, polite student; clearly the leader of his circle, but benign nonetheless. His pale, handsome face and high cheekbones were clearly part of the attraction for the fawning admirers surrounding him ... and from what Harry knew of Riddle's school days, he suspected those admirers were ever present. Dark brown curls, cut short, accentuated his strong, masculine features. Grudgingly, Harry admired the meticulous construction of the mask the dark wizard wore - because make no mistake, he knew just how much of a mask it really was, and the sickness it was hiding. The man was already blacker than black. The murder of his own flesh and blood at such a young age surely had to have caused an irreparable tear in the soul, and the creation of a Horcrux would only exacerbate it, bleeding it into a permanent wound.

He flinched, focus snapping back as he noticed those dark eyes boring into his. He realised he must have been staring rather intently, because Riddle's gaze had sharpened. All of a sudden he seemed to be analysing and assessing Harry, inch by inch. Harry felt like a potions ingredient being picked apart, cut up, ready to be tossed into a toxic vat, and resolved to be much more careful with every move he made, every facet of his personality he dared show while in the presence of this dangerous man. Thankfully at that moment, the Headmaster announced the feast, and Riddle's attentions were distracted by everyone else's exclaims of delight.

Usually not one for obsessing over food, Harry found himself rather captivated. It had been far too long since he had enjoyed a Hogwarts feast. Those long, cold months spent camping in the tent with little to go on had thinned him out, even though he had little on his bones in the first place. His hunger, completely disregarded within the danger of battle, had now reawakened with full force. An enticing array of roast chicken, duck, veal and pork was arranged on silver platters, with giant bowls of mashed potato, Yorkshire puddings and various other sides laid neatly around. The delicious scent of seasoning wisped through the Hall, making Harry crave to fill the aching hunger he had been carrying for so long while on the run. It brought back to mind bittersweet memories of his first Hogwarts feast, when he had been so starved by the Dursleys for so long that he could barely comprehend the sight in front of him.

"So, Harry," the witch named Selene said brightly, eyeing him as he immediately reached for a plate. "It's rather curious for someone to decide to come to Hogwarts so late. Have you been at another wizarding school? Durmstrang, perhaps?"

_Fuck, I should have thought so much more about this_, Harry cursed inwardly. "Ah - yes, I have been studying at Durmstrang for the past six years."

Undeterred by his shortness, Selene pressed on. "Then why did you leave? It is quite an unusual situation, given you only have one more year left. You sound British. Why didn't you study here in the first place?"

"Try not to bombard him with too many questions, Avery. It's a little rude," Riddle said, and the aforementioned witch turned scarlet, ducking her head slightly. The dark wizard's expression was still pleasant, but his eyes were like blades. "But I am curious to know ... Potter, was it? I am curious to know how you came to be here at such a late point."

Harry grimaced internally ... this level of scrutiny from Riddle of all people was already too much. He drew on a little bit of warped reality, past and present, to weave his next set of lies, hoping it would make them easier to keep track of. "Well, I was happy at Durmstrang, but there was fear of an attempt by the Dark wizard Grindelwald to take over the school, so my ... godfather withdrew me. He says there's too much risk there, and it's much safer here."

"Can't see anything wrong with a takeover myself," Druella chimed in, arching a dark brow. She looked Harry up and down as she sipped from her goblet, gaze disparaging. "We should hope to have our school run by one of our own. Merlin knows that old muggle loving fool, Dippet, will no doubt be going senile shortly."

Harry felt anger burning in his veins, but forced himself to simmer. _What else would I expect from an ancestor of Bellatrix Lestrange? The resemblance is even clearer now_. "Regardless, my godfather wanted me away from the situation for my own safety, given Grindelwald's violent methods."

"Understandable," Riddle interjected. "Self preservation is key, after all. One of the noble attributes of Slytherin House. So, you're a Potter ... but you've been under the care of your godfather?"

Harry stiffened. "My parents are dead. I've lived with my godfather for much of my life."

_If only_, he thought sadly.

"I'm sorry to hear that." Riddle didn't sound even a little sorry to his ears, but the table murmured in agreement. "It is interesting that you went to Durmstrang in the first place. As Selene says, you do sound British. Most of us would automatically go to Hogwarts. Why there? Which House were you in?"

_What a controlling hypocrite you are, Riddle_, Harry thought scathingly. _No one else can ask questions, but you can pry as much as you like? You think everything is yours to take._

"I'm feeling a little bombarded with questions, right now, Tom," he said succinctly, picking up his knife and fork and turning to his neighbour. "So, Abraxas, what should I know about Slytherin House?"

Druella sputtered. Clearly startled by Harry's choice of focus, Abraxas began to explain the details, while Tom Riddle simmered. Looking away resolutely, Harry could still feel veiled rage emanating from Riddle through the Horcrux, unfiltered and brutal, even as he knew that outwardly he would be calmly conversing with his peers, still wearing that carefully curated smile.

* * *

Later that evening, Harry sat in the dim green light of the Slytherin common room on a corner chair, watching the seventh years catch up raucously on the sofas. He, on the other hand, felt he had struggled through their conversations for long enough. The combination of having to be actively polite to people who were very likely to be future Death Eaters and also having to weave twenty lies an hour was growing taxing, but he couldn't quite work out when to make his exit. He didn't want to risk catching any more ... unwanted attention.

Tom Riddle had seemed rather irritated to say the least with Harry's distinct lack of interest in him at the Slytherin table. Harry surmised Riddle wasn't quite used to not being worshipped by his peers, and he certainly wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of converting to type, the thought was sickening - but he didn't want to piss him off too much by being completely hostile either. As hard as it would be, neutral would be his best bet, and attract the least amount of attention.

Though he stayed quiet and unassuming, he felt Riddle's gaze, unwavering, burning into his skull. He dared to look for a second and then looked away instantly. His skin prickled with fear. _Stop looking at me for Gods sake. Why can't you even leave me alone when you don't know who I am?_

The small table in the centre of the space was currently littered with several semi empty bottles of elf made merlot. Harry didn't even want to know how the Slytherins smuggled that in. Selene and much of the seventh years outside of Riddle's circle had departed early to bed, leaving Harry feeling like he was being pried open by untrustworthy eyes. Corban Rosier, who seemed to be the sane sibling by all accounts, had already offered him a drink, but he dared not let a drop pass his lips.

Riddle sat in the middle of his group, goblet in hand. His body language was confident and sprawled, with Mulciber to his left and Druella Rosier to his right. She seemed to laugh at anything Riddle said, her eyes glittering with greed as she stared at him. _Looks like crazy runs in the family_, Harry thought derisively. The man seemed to only tolerate her presence for the most part, responding charmingly to her comments, but maintaining a level of physical distance on the settee.

At one point she laughed and rested her hand softly on Riddle's arm, and Harry saw him visibly tense, disgust flickering through the link, even as he smirked winningly back at her and countered her point. "Oh I agree, Muggle Studies is an essentially worthless subject. No one would miss Professor Imphis and her silly little lies if she was to depart. But I would not leave Hogwarts with anything less than an O in every subject, and everyone here should strive for the same. One day, someone can use the power they attain to change things around a little here."

Harry bristled as he picked up on the conversation, the words jamming on all his triggers.

Druella rolled her eyes, lip curled, and rubbed a hand along Riddle's forearm before drawing away. "You are right, as usual, Tom. I just find it unbearable having some jumped up old Mudblood stood in one of _our_ historical classrooms lecturing us on how to behave around _Muggles_. It's disgusting! And pointless."

"Hear, hear," Malfoy agreed, raising his goblet of wine unsteadily. The blond man had looked so uptight and formal at the Feast, but a few drinks later and he seemed to have come out of his shell. His pale eyes, wilder and looser with alcohol, spun to Harry. "Say, Potter, you are of pure blood, aren't you? We don't usually get the Mudblood filth sorted into this House. Think the Hat knows they wouldn't last long."

Blood pressure rocketing, Harry remained quiet in yet another internal battle to not lose his shit.

Most of the table snorted at the Malfoy heir's remarks, but Corban Rosier sneered. "Are you that drunk, Malfoy? He's a Potter. How many Mudblood Potters have you ever heard of?"

"They're all _Gryffindors_ though. Normally. Not exactly as ... clean a palate as us, so to speak."

Not so subtly looking down her nose at Harry, Druella decided to pipe up. "Could be of weaker blood for all we know. Who are his parents?"

"I hardly think that's any of your business," Harry replied coldly, eyes trained on the dark haired witch.

She snarled, probably about to retort something predictably venomous back, when Riddle leaned forward in his seat, entering the fray.

"Now, now, everyone," he said, voice dripping with danger, while staring straight into Harry's eyes. "You're being exceptionally rude to our newest student. He has just joined us; he may as well be a guest at this stage - where are your manners? This is embarrassing behaviour."

Riddle's words immediately quelled everyone into silence. Malfoy shrank back in his seat, while Druella's now closed mouth remained twisted in malevolence.

The future Dark Lord continued. "As Corban says, the Potter family is an exceedingly well known pureblood line. I'm not sure how you all have managed to forget basic pureblood history, but it is a family held in high esteem indeed, albeit not considered one of the Sacred Twenty Eight. Potter is no Mudblood filth."

Harry had no idea why a future Voldemort was defending him against a horde of Slytherins, but he wasn't about to complain.

Until it was ruined, of course.

"Never know though, could be half blood filth," Riddle added with a smirk. The group laughed along with him as if it was all one big joke, collectively eyeing Harry up, not quite cruel but not quite kind.

His jaw could have dropped. _The fucking hypocrisy. You, with your blood? I don't know how you dare. _Abruptly, he stood and moved towards the stairs leading down to the boys dormitories.

"Where are you going, Potter?"

Twitching violently, Harry kept moving to disguise it, not even turning his head in acknowledgement. "I'm off to bed. Need an early night." His tone was clipped.

"If you must. Stairs to the right, all the way down. The free bed is at the back, to the left." He seemed to wait for a response from Harry, who simply walked on and started descending the stairs. "Thank you, Head Boy," the man mocked, and Harry heard Riddle's little circle titter and guffaw as he left.

Once in the relative safety of the empty dormitory, he dropped his head in his hands and sighed deeply, before moving to the only bed with no possessions near it. Heavily he flopped down, and wondered just what the fuck had happened to him in the last twenty four hours. Both mental and physical exhaustion were eating away at him, but even though he longed to close his eyes and seep into sleep, his mind was filled with static and confusion. It was an insane struggle just to try and wrap his head around the situation he found himself in, and now he was alone, really alone, it was hitting him like a Confundus to the head.

He rolled over. His bed was right next to a window looking out into the Black Lake. The view of the bottom of the Lake was eerie in its muted green desertion, the odd fish jittering past before disappearing into the murk. He felt like a shark might crash through and devour him at any moment.

Drawing the curtains of the four poster with a flick of the hawthorn wand, he warded himself in heavily and attempted to settle. He closed his eyes, attempted to drift. Almost there.

Then blood and gore and battle seared across his vision, white hot and loud and terrible. He gasped, eyes peeling open, heart racing, the Horcrux like a tumour in his head.

_No rest for the wicked_, his mind mocked. He closed his eyes again firmly, tears leaking against the sheets.

* * *

The next morning, Harry walked into the sparsely populated Potions classroom, quietly setting down his textbooks on a table towards the back. Just a few other students, mostly Ravenclaws, had arrived, and there was barely any sound other than the scratching of quills. Having skipped breakfast after his fitful sleep, mainly to avoid Riddle and his little Death Eaters in training, he had arrived fairly early. He was hoping to go relatively unnoticed by both the class and Slughorn, who no doubt he knew he would have to deal with again in this time. He could not be blindsided by this time period again, not like he was with Riddle after the Sorting. He had to prepare for every eventuality. How possible that was going to be as a member of Slytherin House under the unofficial rule of a future Dark Lord, however, he wasn't quite sure.

His concerns were solidified when said future Dark Lord walked in not long after, all tall and smirking and undeservedly handsome, and promptly walked towards Harry's table. "Hello, Potter. Mind if I sit with you today? I can get you up to speed on where we are in the curriculum."

Of course, without even waiting for a response, Riddle promptly sat down.

Harry raised a brow. "Sure my blood isn't too dirty to be anywhere near you?"

"You tell me, Potter," the taller replied calmly, setting down his textbooks and opening his notes with a flourish. They looked extremely detailed, the black writing flowing elegantly in loops. Harry felt cold at his recognition of that handwriting. "Although I find I have little interest, compared to my peers."

Speechless for a moment, Harry collected his wits slowly. "_You_? You have little interest in blood status?"

Riddle stared at him. "I know you are no Mudblood, and that is good enough for me. Why do you consider me so specifically in this respect?"

_Wow. He's just full of it. _

Slughorn took this moment to enter the classroom, loud and jovial in his address. Pretending to listen while steadfastly ignoring Riddle next to him, Harry decided he hated the prick already. Even if he wasn't going to become Voldemort, he would never have liked him. The constant questioning had already gotten under his skin, and the Dark wizard knew it, already knew just the buttons to press to wind him up. It was probably a consistent talent with everyone the man needed to oppress. Harry respected honesty and a good nature, and Riddle's veneer of respectability and kindliness was faker than a two sickle Seer.

Nevertheless, it didn't seem to stop countless people, like the vaguely younger and rounder Slughorn, for example, falling for it hook line and sinker.

"That is just remarkable, Tom!" Slughorn exclaimed as he walked past and glanced in Riddle's cauldron, patting him on the back. "Excellent progress since last session. But what else can we expect from you?"

Riddle thanked Slughorn graciously, but Harry revelled in the uncomfortable set of the Dark wizard's shoulders and the tight smile he seemed to force. He seemed to be repelled by any touch, any vaguely human contact beyond sly words and social climbing.

Slughorn then rounded on him. "And our newest student! I do believe your name is Potter?"

"Harry Potter, Sir," he responded, grimacing inwardly. "Great to meet you."

"Likewise, likewise! I've taught several Potters so far in my time, all excellent talents, an excellent family. And it's a fantastic surprise to get one sorted in Slytherin, if you don't mind me saying," Slughorn said, shaking his hand vigorously. "Are you by chance related to-"

Harry cut him off quickly, anticipating what he might ask. "I attended Durmstrang, Sir, so I'm afraid I don't have a lot of contact with my extended family here in England. I'm afraid I haven't been briefed on what seventh year Potions at Hogwarts entails, if you could enlighten me?"

"But of course! You have your books with you, yes? If you could turn to page seventy six ..."

To Harry's surprise, it turned out the class were a week into brewing their own samples of Polyjuice Potion. Slughorn bustled around him, assuring him he would get extra time if needed and giving him hints and tips that, for once, he was confident he could do without. When he left, the silence on the table slowly grew deafening as they worked.

"Look, Potter, listen. Between you and me, you are coming off a little unfriendly. You don't want to give the impression that you aren't fond of your House. People might talk." Riddle clicked his tongue condescendingly, eyes burning straight into his. He moved to glance into Harry's bubbling cauldron casually, looming into his personal space. "We have a way of doing things and a social order in Slytherin. Follow along, and you will do well. If you don't, well ..."

"Well what?" Harry snapped. "You'll ruin my life? Scheme against me? I'm not scared of you, thanks. I've encountered much more fearsome enemies." The Dark Lord's venomous face burned in his head. He swallowed, trying to clear his mind, unsure of the capabilities of the Horcrux connection in this time and with this iteration of his enemy.

Riddle levelled his angry gaze with a strange interest. "We barely know each other, yet you seem so ready to assume the worst in me. I don't want to be an enemy to you, Harry." The '_but I can be_' remained unspoken.

Hearing his first name in that voice again, Harry felt sick. The tone was deeper, the sound much more human, but all he could hear in it was Voldemort's high, merciless mocking. "Don't call me that. We don't know each other like that."

"What, enough to use first names?" Riddle laughed. "So unfriendly, Harry. Anyone would think you have something to hide."

About to snap a retort, he froze and remembered he was supposed to be going under the radar, not drawing attention to himself. He needed to force some cordiality into his voice and manner before Riddle actually stalked his life. While he knew he would be incapable of pretending to be a fawning fan like the rest of the seventh years, he at least needed to blend. "I'm not hiding anything. I just don't appreciate people sitting and talking about my blood status or whatever as if I'm not even there. And I'm just not used to this, that's all. Durmstrang was very different. I didn't really have many ... friends, as such. A lot of people spread rumours about me, decided they liked me only when it was convenient."

He winced, inwardly slapping himself. _Why would I even tell him that?_ Riddle would jump at any sign of weakness and deride him, he knew it.

But those hard eyes almost ... softened, and Riddle merely acknowledged his words with a tilt of his head, stirring his potion gently with a wandless motion. "I wasn't always surrounded by followers myself."

_Why is he this bothered? _Harry thought nervously. _I should just be a new, uninteresting face. Why is his attention on me?_

He looked straight at Riddle properly for the first time, full on, and met those dangerous eyes. They glittered, and an odd half smile played on his lips. Suddenly, Harry was filled with an unknown, foreign sense of wonder and glee.

There it was. The link, like an electric shock to his senses, and he instantly knew that Riddle could - and had been able - to feel it too.


End file.
